He poured them both a glass of mulled wine and they sat down to eat dinner, which was venison pie that evening.
Presently, Margaret MacEwan came in. She was an elegant woman with fair hair that had as yet no touch of gray in it, and the same sage-green eyes and small features as Malle. She was two inches taller than her daughter, but then, Malle thought sadly, most people were taller than she was.
Margaret kissed both her husband and daughter then sat down before accepting a glass of wine from Kenneth. “Why are you two looking so gloomy?” she asked at once. “Cheer up!”
Kenneth put a hand over hers on the table. “A potentially serious development on our southern border,” he said grimly, frowning. He briefly outlined what had happened that morning while Malle had been out riding.
Margaret shook her head sadly. “Those people!” she said angrily. “And that son of theirs! It is said that he is a rake, and that many women have fallen for him. He particularly likes young widows, so I have heard.”
Malle, who had been swallowing a mouthful of wine, choked on it and spat it out all over the pristine white tablecloth. Her eyes were watering and she shook her head furiously.
“Mammy,” she wheezed out at last. “Can we not speak of such things at the dining table please?” She wiped her tears, then her mouth. “I really do not think it is fit talk for the dinner table.” Malle did not want to be reminded of how attractive she found Craig Dunbar.
“Sorry, lovie,” her mother said soothingly. “How is your dress coming along?”
“Oh, Mammy, it’s lovely,” Malle gushed. “It fits like a second skin and it goes so well with the brooch and earrings. You were right—I am going to look like a princess!”
Kenneth watched his wife and daughter fondly as they began to journey into the delightful female world of dresses, ceilidhs, and weddings. He knew that if he slipped out without saying goodbye they would not even notice his absence.
As long as my girls are happy, he thought indulgently. He stood up and kissed them both on the cheek, said goodbye, and left them in gossip land, laughing softly as he went.
He was concerned about Malle, though. She was almost eighteen, and after that age it would be hard to find a suitable husband. There had been no lack of suitors; in fact, there had been many, but she had refused every one, and Malle herself could not give him the reasons why.
She had been thinking about the same subject herself, though. None of the young hopefuls who had beaten a path to her door had made her heart beat faster. The one man who had managed to do so was the one she most disliked: Craig Dunbar.
He was probably a drunk, she told herself. He had probably caught the pox from one of the whores he had slept with. He probably ate like a pig in a trough, and was as thick as two short planks of wood, and Malle could not stand stupid people. One could be uneducated without being an imbecile, but the son of a laird had no excuse; he had the best of everything.
She went to sit in the parlor, where she was reading Le Livre de La Cité des Dames, by Christine de Pizan in original French. She was teaching herself that language because she wanted to go to France to see the city of Paris at least once in her life. However, she also had a love of learning about anything and everything under the sun, whether it was sewing or sword fighting or even how to grow rye, and she would study it if it piqued her interest. She enjoyed good conversation and could hold her own in any debate, especially about things most women knew very little about, and she had argued dozens of men to a standstill on many occasions.
Her father came back, sat down, and yawned. He loved to be out in the fresh air, but it tired him out, since, as he admitted himself, he was not getting any younger.
“Do you have time to tell me another story, Paw?” Malle asked, smiling winningly. She knew the answer would be yes, since she could wrap soft-hearted Kenneth around her little finger with no effort at all.
He pretended to grumble a bit, but he loved telling stories as much as Malle liked hearing them. They had a ritual: she would stoke up the fire then pour him a dram of whisky while he sat and sorted out the story in his head by closing his eyes and concentrating. Then she would sit beside him with her head on his shoulder as she had done ever since she was a little girl, and he would begin to speak.
Tonight, the story was about the feud between the MacEwans and the Dunbars, as it usually was. She had listened to all the anecdotes before, but she loved to hear them again and again, even though she could practically recite them word for word. She would never admit, even to herself, that she loved coorying up beside her father and having his arm around her.
“When my father was a boy,” he began, “there was a strip of MacEwan land on the other side of the Cut, but it caused many problems, because the Dunbar sheep would not listen when we told them that they must not graze on that land.”
“Stupid sheep,” Malle murmured, laughing softly.
“So my grandfather put a fence up,” Kenneth said, frowning. “That worked for perhaps six months, then one day one of his shepherds came to my father and reported that some of Dunbar’s sheep were grazing on our land. My father had put up a very strong fence made of the strongest, most mature of our pine wood, so we knew it could not fall down. He walked along a half mile of the fence, almost to the end of our strip of land, then he found a space where the wood had been smashed.
“The force used to do that must have been very strong, but there was no way to prove that the Dunbars had done it, since that part of the Cut was very narrow and could have been reached by anyone.” He stopped to sip his wine and smiled at her. “Now you tell me the next bit.”
“So Granda put a watch on it,” she said, smiling, “and discovered that the shepherds who worked for the Dunbars were bringing their sheep through the hole in dozens because the grass there was nice and lush, but Granda was a cunning and vengeful man, and he could not let this kind of mischief go unpunished. He had three sheep which had foot rot and were kept apart from the rest of the herd and marked for slaughter, so he took them across the water and put them on the Dunbar bank. There they wandered in the damp land around the water's edge and spread the foot rot amongst the Dunbar herd, half of which had to be slaughtered.
“Granda was a ruthless man, Paw,” Malle said sadly. “That was cruel.”
“To the sheep, maybe,” Kenneth agreed. “But they are bred for slaughter, Malle, and that man could not be allowed to get away with that bit of wickedness or much worse would have followed.”
“So what happened to the land, Paw?” she asked. She moved to sit at her father’s feet where he gently stroked her hair, then he laughed.
“There was a furious exchange of letters for a month before they negotiated a sale of the land to the Dunbars. This was not to say that hostilities had ceased, merely that each side was doing what was practical. From then to this day there has been no actual violence between us. They leave us alone and we leave them alone. It is a pity, because we have much in common and could help each other in many ways, but I doubt Malcolm Dunbar sees it that way, and I am sure his son does not, judging by what you have told me today.”
“He is a very unpleasant character,” Malle said angrily, frowning fiercely. “If I were a big strong man I would challenge him, but I am not.”
“The traditional way for warring families to make peace was for their sons and daughters to marry.” Kenneth laughed mischievously. “Perhaps we should try it!”
“Not even in jest, Paw!” Malle looked up at him, her expression one of complete revulsion. “I would not take him as a gift!”
“So I must not send the proposal I wrote to Malcolm Dunbar?” His voice was still teasing.
“If you ever do that, Paw,” she warned, wagging her finger at him, “I will tie you up, throw you in the piggery, and watch them eat you alive!”
Kenneth chuckled. “Then my ghost would come back to haunt you! Do not worry, my lovie.” He kissed her cheek. “You will always be safe as long as I am here.”
“Tell me another one, Paw,” she begged, as her mother came into the room bearing three cups of hot milk on a tray.
“Not more stories, Malle?” She laughed. “You have heard them all a hundred times already!”
Malle laughed and shrugged. “I like them!”
“And with every one you hear, your dislike of the Dunbars becomes worse and worse,” Margaret pointed out, frowning. “We should heal this rift—it has been going on long enough. It is very uncomfortable when we go to a ceilidh, then have to stand on one side of a room because the Dunbars are on the other. We should make peace.” She looked and sounded depressed.
Suddenly Malle felt very tired. She yawned and stretched then announced her intention to go to bed. She kissed her parents goodnight and went upstairs, but something was nagging at the back of her mind. She disliked Craig Dunbar intensely, and as far as she could see he had no redeeming features at all, so why was it that her mind kept dwelling on him?
She was glad that they had been on the other side of the river from her, because she was honest enough to admit that if he had put his arms around her she would not have had the strength or inclination to resist him.
Back in Dunbar Castle, Craig was thinking similar thoughts about Malle. How could she be so beautiful but so absolutely maddening?
Another thought occurred to him. What if Fergus had trespassed on MacEwan land to run away from someone who was chasing him and not to get his horse back? Fergus McDowell was not poor; he earned a fair wage but he had a family to support. He had a few acres of his own land, though. What if someone wanted that?
He decided not to pursue the matter any further. No one had been harmed.
* * *
Suddenly he caught himself thinking about Malle’s beautiful angry face. He laid down in his cold bed and closed his eyes, but for a long time sleep would not come, even though he was weary to the bone. He felt an urge to make her his—not in spite of her character, but because of it. He sent the thought away as if it was sinful and tried to sleep.
3
The Body
Malle’s daily ride took a rather grotesque turn that morning. She had decided to go return to the spot where she had found the trespasser so that she could look around and see if there was something there that might have attracted him and tempted him to make the crossing—perhaps one of the deer that roamed the estate.
Besides, it was a beautiful spot. She often wished that she had some way of recording the beautiful scenery and animals in this part of the Highlands, so that she could capture the moment when a stag raised his head while surveying his domain, or the sun going down over the jagged Cairngorm mountains.
She and Arthur meandered down to the Cut to have a drink, but when she reached the bank she recoiled, horrified at what she saw.
* * *
There, floating in the middle of the stream, was the corpse of Fergus McDowell.
* * *
His tunic was caught on a rock, his sightless dead eyes stared up at the sky, and there was a bright stream of blood leaking from his now useless heart and flowing downstream with the current. Glittering under the water beside him was a large broadsword.
Malle took a few deep breaths to calm herself down, then turned and rode back to castle MacEwan as if the hounds of hell were after her. She scrambled out of the saddle and raced upstairs to her father’s study, where she found him poring over his ledgers.
“Malle!” he cried, leaping up from his chair. “Whatever is the matter? You look as if you have seen a ghost!”
She shook her head and gulped in air, trying to recover her breath. “Not a ghost, Paw—a corpse! The corpse of Fergus McDowell, the man I saw yesterday on our land. He is floating right in the middle of the Cut, and he has a hole through his heart.” She burst into tears, but Kenneth gave her only the briefest of hugs for comfort.
He did not waste a moment, even to change out of his kilt into riding clothes. “Come,” he said urgently, grabbing Malle’s hand. “Show me where he is.” He called five of his best guards to go with him and they stormed out of the castle, reaching the Cut ten minutes later. Kenneth dismounted and stared at the body for a while, and Malle wished she could close the staring eyes.
“This was definitely no accident,” he said heavily. “And we know that he is one of Dunbar’s men. We will have to go and see him.”
“See Laird Dunbar?” Malle asked, her eyes wide with disbelief. “You mean to go onto his land?”
Her father nodded slowly, still looking at the corpse. “He came from the Dunbar side, so this affects both of us, and I must go to see him.”
When they approached the river Malle was still not sure about going there.
“Can you not write him a letter?” she asked. “They will not harm a messenger.”
Kenneth shook his head. “This has to be done face to face,” he replied grimly. “You stay here, Malle.”
“Indeed I will not!” she exclaimed, outraged. Before anyone could stop her she had urged Arthur into the water. It came up to his belly, but she was comfortably able to reach the other side, where she waited for the others to join her. Some of the horses jumped and some waded, but they all made it in the end.
Kenneth glowered at her, but he could not help admiring her fighting spirit. “We will talk later, my girl,” he growled.
Malle smiled then followed him. They had not gone two hundred yards when they encountered the Laird Malcolm Dunbar and Laird Craig Dunbar the Younger. Both men scowled at the MacEwan party, but they could do nothing to hinder them. They were outnumbered, since they were on their own land and had brought no guards with them.
“What are you doing on my land, MacEwan?” Malcolm Dunbar demanded aggressively. “There is no excuse for this! Leave immediately or I will call my guards and my dogs!”
“Did you have to bring your daughter with you, M’laird?” Craig drawled sarcastically. His eyes had been fixed on her since the first moment he saw her with the rest of the party. Indeed, he had not been able to stop thinking about her since their last encounter; even though his mind disliked her, his weak man’s body had other ideas.
“Is she scared to be without her Paw?” he taunted her. He saw her face darken.
“Enough, Craig!” his father barked. “We must sort out this matter. What is your excuse for being on my land, Laird MacEwan?”
“We found one of your workers in the middle of the Cut,” Kenneth answered grimly. “He has been stabbed through the heart.”
“His name is Fergus McDowell,” Malle supplied, looking straight at Craig. “Perhaps you would like to tell your father what happened yesterday, Dunbar.” She had deliberately addressed him in the same disrespectful way as she had the day before, and she saw Laird Malcolm Dunbar open his mouth to speak when Craig silenced him with a shake of his head. Malcolm Dunbar had the same fiery coloring as his son, but that was where the resemblance ended; although he was indignant for Craig’s sake, he was not so hotheaded, and he reluctantly gave his son the chance to speak.
He addressed Malle. “MacEwan.” His deep voice was derisive as he stared across the twenty yards of ground between them. He gave an exaggerated sigh, and addressed his father. “Poor Fergus’s horse jumped over the Cut yesterday and MacEwan caught them and chased them back here. She seemed to think he was up to some mischief, but I think she is making it up.” He gave her a challenging stare.
“And just why would I do that?” she asked scathingly. “Is there not enough trouble between our families without stirring up more?”
He glared at her for a moment then shrugged and spread his hands. “I have no idea,” he replied. “You are a woman. Women are not known for their thinking abilities.”
Malle screamed, not in distress, but in pure rage. She leapt out of the saddle and ran over to Craig, oblivious to the sound of her father and Malcolm Dunbar’s shouts. As she ran up to Craig’s horse, he dismounted.
Malle had not realized Craig’s sheer size. She had to tip her head bac
k to meet his eyes, but she swung her arm around to slap his face; he caught her wrist easily, and stood looking down at her.
His eyes were a deep, dark gray, but they looked almost black with fury.
She glared back at him, and her fists were clenched with the effort of not hitting him again, but she realized that if she did it would only enrage him further, and he was a wall of solid muscle, so she could not hope to hurt him.
Kenneth tried to drag her away, but anger had given her strength, and she resisted with all her might, trying to shake him off, but eventually one of the guards stepped in to help.
“You are making a fool of yourself.” Kenneth’s voice was calm, but stern. “Calm down, Malle, or I will make you ride with one of the guards.”
Presently one of the nearby workers stepped in to speak. There was something about his dark presence that Malle did not like, but she listened to him as she began to calm down.
“M’laird, Mistress,” he said politely, “my name is Alan Bruce, and I may be able tae help solve the mystery for ye. There has been some kind o’ trouble on the estate. Onyway, this could hae been the reason they killed him, but he cannae come back an’ tell us. There is a gang o’ men somewhere on the land keen on stirrin’ things up, agin’ the Laird’s faimly an’ we dinnae knaw why.
“He might hae seen them, or maybe he was even ane o’them, but I doot that. The killin’ might o’ had somethin’ tae dae wi’ that or it might be a fight amang thersels. From whit I knaw, they hae nae mercy, and if Fergus wis ane o’them—an’ I dinnae think he was—an’ broke ane o’ their rules then they might o’ killed him. But Fergus was a hard worker and a good faimly man, an’ he has mony friends roon’ here an’ he will be missed. I dinnae knaw whit his wife an’ bairns is gaunnae dae noo.”
Highlander's Ancient Vengeance (Scottish Medieval Historical Romance) Page 2